


The Fucking Tetralogy

by ThornWild



Series: The Jacob and Marcus Tales [1]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Anal, Angry Sex, Angst, Gay, Lots of Sex, M/M, Oral, Slash, Smut, Swearing, University, angry men, creative swearing, they say fuck a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four short stories. </p><p>Marcus is the maladjusted, borderline sadistic and really quite brilliant editor-in-chief of the campus newspaper, and Jacob wants him. The only problem is that Jacob is just about as maladjusted and out of touch as the object of his desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GroteskBurlesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroteskBurlesque/gifts).



> Originally posted to [GayAuthors.Org](http://www.gayauthors.org). Betaed by [Sasha Distan](http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/user/18065-sasha-distan/).
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely GroteskBurlesque, because I'm the crappest and slowest beta reader in the world.

After asserting that he really can’t be all that drunk because he only had two fingers of whisky and a few beers, and there must be some other reason he’s draped over Marcus like some stumbling zombie, what Jacob means to say is, ‘Who am I shitting? I am utterly carparked.’

What he says is, ‘Fuck! Who am I fucking? I’m not drunk!’ He realises as he’s saying it that that’s not what he meant to say at all, but it seems a bit late for that, and anyway, how can he be expected to think properly with Marcus’s arm wrapped around his waist like that?

Jacob takes a stumbling step, trips over his own feet and, in spite of Marcus’s support, falls flat on his arse, giggling.

‘Oh, get the fuck up, fucktard!’ Marcus complains. ‘Or I’ll leave you here, you jizz-guzzling twat!’

Most people find Marcus’s manner intimidating. Jacob does not. He laughingly raises two fingers at him and says, ‘Fuck off, Marcus!’ He takes the hand that Marcus offers him and pulls himself to his feet, still laughing.

Pulling a fag out of his pocket and lighting it—his asthma has never stopped him from smoking and, he’s decided, it never will either—he continues, ‘What I meant to say, obviously, was that I am really fucking pissed!’ He laughs again. ‘How the fuck did I get this pissed, Marcus?’

‘Well, I don’t fucking know, do I? Fucking lightweight . . . Can we get a shitting move-on now, please?’ Marcus grabs Jacob roughly by the arm and drags him along through the night. Jacob thinks, that’s gonna bruise, but he’s okay with that. He’s okay with a lot of things, if they come from Marcus.

* * *

‘Why is he so mean to me?’ Fiona is sobbing like a baby, snot running down her upper lip. She looks a bit like a cross between a toddler and a fish.

‘Oh, he’s like this with everyone, Fi!’ Sami assures her, comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘He’s like some kind of evil demon from hell, yeah?’

‘Yeah, pet, pull yourself together,’ says Jacob, handing her a Kleenex. ‘No, seriously, stop fucking crying before I thump you.’

Sami glares at him. ‘Don’t you start too! It’s bad enough she’s being bullied by Marcus!’

‘Yeah? Well, if she’d do her fucking job he wouldn’t have to bully her, now, would he?’

‘Fuck off, Jacob!’

Jacob grins. He’s spent enough time in Marcus’s presence that he’s beginning to channel him. It’s liberating.

Jacob’s pretty sure that Marcus made it to editor in chief of the campus paper through a combination of bribery, intimidation and good old-fashioned blackmail. The university is a breeding ground for gossip, and no one can get dirt on people like Marcus. Either way, Jacob can’t imagine that most people would work with Marcus Allen voluntarily. All that aside, though, the fucker’s actually doing a good job. He’s got the scoop on everything from the candidates for the SU elections to the university staff. Under his leadership the paper has shed light on several important issues, from the poor state of the campus library to a member of the security staff who was going through students’ mail and stealing any cash he found. This on top of studying toward a law degree and working part time to afford rent. It’s no wonder the tall twenty-two-year-old is wiry thin and has a pair of black fucking suitcases permanently residing under his eyes.

Now he comes striding back into the room like he’s got the moves like Jagger, and grabs Jacob by the shoulder. ‘Enough of this, yeah? Get the fuck back out there and do what you’re told before I cut your bollocks off with a chainsaw and feed them to my nan’s yappy little terrier.’

‘I’d like to point out that if you castrate me with a chainsaw there won’t be much left for the terrier.’ Jacob tilts up his chin in smug defiance, but he follows Marcus out of the room anyway. 

For someone so thin, Marcus’s long fingers are remarkably strong.

‘You can let go now, you know,’ says Jacob airily and Marcus stops in his tracks. He doesn’t remove his hand, however. 

‘Just making sure you know where you’re going.’

‘I know where the fuck I’m going, I’ve been at this campus for two fucking years!’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t want you cunting things up, now do I?’

‘Piss off!’ Jacob shakes the hand off. ‘You up for drinks tonight?’

Marcus looks at him as though he only has half a brain and that half is slowly rotting into goo. ‘No, you sorry excuse for a social leper, I’m not, I’ve got a fucking assignment to write, haven’t I?’

‘Mind if I come around?’

‘Yes, I do mind. I mind very much indeed. Since when are we fucking BFFs, eh? Are we gonna braid each other’s hair and talk about boys?’

Jacob shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets, turning away. ‘See you later, twatface.’

‘Not if I can fucking help it, Twinkletoes McFapmuffin!’ comes the reply. ‘You!’ Marcus shouts to some hapless fresher. ‘Get your gaping arsehole over here, I need you to get some copies of these papers!’

He knows it’s not healthy, but hearing Marcus shout abuse at people is kind of a turn-on for Jacob. What’s even more of a turn-on is having Marcus shout abuse at _him_ , crowding him against a wall, grabbing his arm hard enough to bruise, and that’s even less healthy. It’s not even like the guy is especially attractive, physically, but when those blazing green eyes are fixed on him, gaze steely and furious, Jacob gets harder than fucking Chinese algebra. He’s had to take many a respite in the gents’ to rid himself of that problem.

Getting Marcus to shout at you takes very little effort, but Jacob still provokes him, goads him, trying to get him to go that extra mile in his abuse, and he likes to think that, in some strange way, Marcus respects him for that.

* * *

It’s eleven o’clock, and the Student Union is closing, and Jacob knows it’s a bad idea but he’s had a few, and Marcus’s room is in Block C, just across the Circle. Jacob knows where it is, because he’s been there twice, after late running editorial meetings. 

He lights a fag as he makes his way towards the entrance. A few people are standing out there smoking, and Jacob hangs out with them for a while, chatting about nothing at all. He recognises Daniel, who lives in Marcus’s corridor, and when everyone’s finished their cigarettes, he follows Daniel inside and asks if he’ll let him into the corridor as he just needs to have a word with His Obstinate Cuntishness.

‘Sure, just don’t tell him I let you in or he’ll fucking crucify me.’

Jacob knocks out the rhythm of _Back in Black_ on Marcus’s door. When that gets no response, he knocks more persistently and accompanies the knocking with a shout of, ‘Marcie-Marc-Marcus! Lemme in, will you?’

‘Fuck off!’ comes the muffled response from within, but Jacob does not cease his knocking, and soon the door is wrenched open. 

Marcus is wearing a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. He looks furious, but then he always does. ‘What the twatting hell are you doing here, fuckface?’

‘I said I was gonna come around.’

‘And I said you fucking well were _not_!’ Marcus shoots back.

‘Let me in?’

Marcus rolls his eyes, but then he takes a step back. That was easier than Jacob had expected, and he walks into the room. Marcus shuts the door behind him, then turns, arms crossed, and glares.

‘Well? What do you want?’ he asks impatiently.

Jacob shrugs. ‘Just fancied a chat.’

Marcus takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. It’s not the kind of sound a person makes when they’re amused. It’s the kind of sound an angry tiger might make when you’ve invaded its territory and are about to become lunch. Then he explodes.

‘Does it make you feel good, huh? Wasting my fucking time? Does it make that tiny piece of flesh you call a cock hard to know that you’ve pissed me off, eh? Is that why you come in here and fucking bother me?’ There’s a vein at his temple, throbbing, and his face has gone red.

Jacob makes no reply. He simply smirks. 

‘Well, let me tell you something, shit-for-brains! You are nothing. You are less than nothing, okay? You’re a fucking waste of fucking space!’ Marcus takes a couple of steps towards him. Jacob stands his ground. His heart rate has increased and he can feel his breath coming more rapidly, but he stands his ground, arms folded over his chest, mirroring Marcus.

Marcus stops, a few inches away. He cocks his head to one side and studies him. Lowers his gaze.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ His voice has lowered to a purr. ‘It does make you hard.’

Jacob licks his lips. ‘And if it does?’

Marcus shakes his head. ‘Then you are more fucked up than I thought you could possibly be.’ He takes a step back. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

But Jacob, slightly drunk and feeling bold and stupid, takes a step forward and crashes his lips into Marcus’s. 

There’s a moment where Marcus stands stock-still, frozen, not moving a single muscle. Then his hand is in Jacob’s hair, pulling hard, and he’s turned them around and is pushing Jacob up against the door to the loo. His thin lips are firm and unyielding. He pulls back slightly and whispers hoarsely, ‘Is this what you fucking want?’ Then he bites down on Jacob’s neck, hard, and Jacob bites his lip in an attempt not to cry out, because these walls are paper-thin. He can feel that Marcus is hard too, now.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. Marcus has let him go and taken several steps back and is wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Fuck off,’ he says, softly. ‘Go home and have a wank. And if you dare mention this to _anyone_ I will fucking tear off your head and shit down your neck, all right?’

Jacob won’t admit defeat, though, and he closes the distance between them and cups Marcus’s hard-on through his trousers. ‘You’ll need to do the same, I think,’ he murmurs. 

Marcus glares down at him in disgust. ‘Get. Out.’ 

There’s no mistaking that tone, and Jacob takes his hand away, nods his head once and leaves the room. The next morning he will wake up with a headache and remember what happened and for a few minutes he will panic badly enough that his sister will ask if he’s having an asthmatic attack and whether to drive him to A&E, but right now he feels smugly confident in his knowledge that he has snogged Marcus fucking Allen, and Marcus snogged him back, even if it was only for a minute.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Marcus appears to be avoiding him. He doesn’t shout at him, doesn’t even talk to him, and avoids eye contact whenever they pass one another. On Friday Jacob has a late lecture on twentieth century literature and when he comes out it’s absolutely pissing down. He hasn’t brought an umbrella, so he pulls his jacket up over his head and runs to the Student Union.

The place is almost deserted. A lot of campus-dwellers go home on the weekends, and most lectures ended hours ago. The bartender looks like she’s about to close early, but still fills the glass of the bar’s only occupant.

Jacob trots over and sits down next to Marcus, glancing at him. He’s looking even more tired than usual, ageing prematurely from all the stress, and Jacob briefly feels sorry for him. ‘You look like shit,’ he remarks.

‘And you look like Satan took a piss on you,’ Marcus replies, taking a sip of his cheap whisky.

‘Rain surprised me.’ Jacob orders whatever Marcus is having. ‘Finish your assignment on time, then?’

‘No, I’m sitting here because I still have a fucking deadline.’ Marcus rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I finished it.’

‘Good, you’ll be returning with renewed gusto to the clusterfuck that’s the campus paper on Monday, then.’ Jacob raises his glass. ‘Tally-fucking-ho.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Marcus, mostly automatically. ‘Or I might fucking strangle you.’

‘Okay, you guys, I’m closing the bar,’ the bartender cuts in. ‘Drink up and piss off, both of you.’

Jacob drains his glass, grimacing at too much whisky at once. ‘Cheers, ducks,’ he says hoarsely.

It’s still raining. They stand outside the Student Union, protected by an outcropping of roof. Jacob lights a cigarette. ‘Fucking rain,’ he mutters. ‘I’m fucking soaked already.’

Marcus glances at him. Then he sighs. ‘Fuck it. Come on, I’ll lend you a towel.’

* * *

‘I’ve only got cheap gin,’ Marcus informs him once he’s handed him a towel. Jacob shrugs.

‘Cheap gin is fine.’ He begins to towel his hair dry. He’s seated on Marcus’s bed, wearing only jeans. His t-shirt, jacket and socks are drying in the bathroom.

Marcus pours some of the clear liquid in two glasses and hands one to Jacob. Then he tosses his, fills it up again and sits down next to Jacob on the bed.

‘So . . .’ Jacob holds out the ‘o’ for a long time, tapping his glass with his fingertips. ‘About Monday—’

‘Shut the fuck up about Monday!’ Marcus growls. ‘Just leave it.’

‘Fine.’ 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping their gin, but then Marcus looks at him, and Jacob can’t fucking help himself because his green eyes are full of fire. He puts his glass on the bedside table and grabs Marcus by the back of the neck, pulling him towards him for a kiss. Marcus seems to respond in sheer surprise.

When they come up for air, Marcus hisses, ‘The fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘What I want. And what _you_ want.’

Marcus places a hand on Jacob’s chest, pushing him away. ‘I don’t . . . I _don’t_ fucking want—’

‘Yes, you fucking do, you cunt!’ Jacob feels annoyed now. ‘You touch me any chance you get! You don’t grab anyone else by the arm like you do me. You don’t stand so close to anyone else when you’re giving them a verbal thrashing. Your whole fucking body-language is screaming that you want me—’

‘Don’t tell me what I do or do not fucking want—’

‘Why not, when it’s so _fucking obvious_?’ 

Marcus says nothing. He doesn’t even look at him. 

Jacob scoffs. ‘Fuck you, Marcus.’ He pulls away again.

‘Jacob.’ Marcus’s voice is soft, and Jacob is taken aback at hearing him speak his name. He’s not sure when he last did that. Their eyes meet once more, and now Marcus is kissing _him_ , pushing him down into the mattress. He’s got him by the hair again, and Jacob gasps.

This is, of course, ultimately what Jacob wants. To be held down by this tall, thin man, to be used and abused by him, but he’s not going to give it up so easily, and soon he’s reversed their positions again. He finds it horribly unfair that he himself is shirtless while Marcus is still wearing his grey button-down, and aims to rectify this error as quickly as possible.

As soon as Marcus’s shirt is open, Jacob licks and bites a trail down his sparsely-haired chest and stomach, and Marcus swears loudly. Jacob wonders fleetingly if anyone else is home but finds he doesn’t care. Before he can get to his goal, however, Marcus is wrestling him to his back again, and now he’s undoing Jacob’s belt.

Marcus gets him off without ceremony, staring into his eyes. Jacob’s cock is already dripping with pre-cum and it feels like a fucking dream, Marcus’s hand on him. Soon he’s shaking and swearing and very close to begging. Marcus’s green eyes are still fixed to his, and his thin lips curl into a smile.

‘You’re fucking loving this, aren’t you?’ he purrs. ‘Bet you want me to fuck you, too, like the little bitch you are.’

Jacob can do nothing but nod.

‘Say it.’

Jacob swallows, and lets out an undignified little whine before he manages, ‘It’s . . . It’s what I came here for. I want . . . I want you to fuck me!’

‘Yeah?’ Marcus smirks. ‘Well, too fucking bad!’ And he picks up speed, stroking him faster, and with a string of moaned profanities, Jacob comes, so hard his eyes roll back in his skull.

Marcus wipes his hand on the towel, and Jacob reaches out to touch him, to return the favour, but Marcus pushes his hand away. ‘It’s stopped raining. You should go home.’

‘What about you?’

‘Nothing about me, I don’t want your hands anywhere near me, you understand? Now, fuck off!’

Jacob shakes his head, staring at the man before him. Marcus now refuses to meet his gaze. ‘What the fuck happened to you, Marcus?’ Jacob keeps his voice soft. ‘How’d you get this way?’

Marcus’s gaze snaps up to meet his again, and it’s seething with more acute fury than Jacob has seen to date. ‘None of your fucking business, you stupid little poof! Now put your clothes on and get the _fuck_ out!’

For once, Jacob does as he’s told. 

* * *

Jacob sees Marcus in the corridors. He sees him at the editorial meeting on Monday, where he shouts abuse at everyone, but doesn’t spare Jacob a glance, and it begins to dawn on Jacob that he really shouldn’t have said that. But he can’t apologise either. Apologies aren’t part of Jacob’s repertoire. 

Over the course of the week, he tries to get Marcus to talk to him, but Marcus ignores him completely, and the bastard doesn’t answer his texts either. Jacob is starting to get properly angry. Where does Marcus get off fucking with his head like that?

On Friday afternoon, Jacob sees him outside the library on the phone, looking agitated. ‘Yeah? Well, I hope you fucking die!’ he shouts before hanging up and shoving the phone into his pocket. Then he starts off across the Circle towards Block C in long, angry strides.

Ignoring the fact that he still has a lecture, Jacob sees his chance and sprints to catch up.

‘Marcus, I need to talk to you.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘You can’t just ignore me forever, you twat!’ Jacob’s legs are shorter than Marcus’s, and soon he’s out of breath, but he keeps in step with the taller man. ‘Seriously, who do you think you fucking are that you can just do what you did and then not talk to me?’

‘I don’t need to make excuses to you, you little cunt rag!’ Marcus retaliates, opening the door to his block. Jacob follows him in, up the stairs, seriously angry now.

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you! I’m not letting this go! We’re gonna fucking talk about this whether you want to or not, you bastard!’

One flight of stairs, two flights of stairs, and Jacob follows Marcus into his corridor and when they get to his room, Marcus tries to slam the door in his face, but Jacob pushes past him and turns to face him, arms crossed.

‘Get out of my room!’

‘No.’ Jacob stares him down. ‘No, I won’t fucking get out of your room! Fine, maybe I overstepped my bounds, but I don’t fucking care! You’re acting like a poncy little tit and I want to know why! You think you can just fucking tease me, lead me on and then not talk to me again? I won’t fucking accept that, and I want to know why you’re being such a fucking dick!’

‘You wanna know? You want my fucking sob-story, eh? Is that how this is gonna go, you think, that I’ll break down and weep little girl’s tears and tell you all about my fucking miserable life? How dare you think for a minute that I owe you even a moment of my time when my dad, the same alcoholic fucktwat who made my fucking childhood a living hell, has a tumour the size of a fucking watermelon in his liver?’

There’s silence. Jacob stares in disbelief at the man before him. There’s spittle on his upper lip, from the shouting, and his breathing is coming fast and hard. He looks even more tired and emaciated than usual. It makes him look ten years older at least. 

‘Marcus . . .’ Jacob’s mouth feels dry, and he suddenly has no idea what to say.

Marcus looks away. ‘Don’t fucking give me that, I don’t want anything from you, least of all your sodding sympathy. Will you just fucking get out of here?’

Jacob opens his mouth to argue, but then he closes it again, and in defeat he starts towards the door. When he passes Marcus, however, he stops and looks up at him. For a wild moment he wants to hug him, but people don’t hug Marcus Allen. He’s not at all certain what will happen if he does. But now Marcus raises his gaze to his, and within seconds he’s on him.

Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Everything’s a blur, and soon Marcus has Jacob on the bed, shirtless, holding his wrists above his head with a grip hard enough to bruise and biting savagely into his shoulder. 

Marcus licks his earlobe and whispers, ‘Don’t think for a second that I like you. And don’t try to fucking psychoanalyse me, thinking that I’m doing this because I’m vulnerable or some shit. I don’t care that my dad’s got cancer, and I don’t care about you, I just wanna get off, understand?’

Jacob nods. ‘Yeah,’ he gasps. ‘Fine. I don’t fucking care, just do it!’

After a short but fierce battle to get his own and the rest of Jacob’s clothes off, Marcus is doing things with his fingers and tongue that Jacob thought people only did in pornos. Jacob throws back his head, panting, grasping at the sheets. And then Marcus is _in him_ , finally, slowly sinking in to the hilt, and it’s all Jacob can do not to wail like a bitch because it feels so fucking good and he’s wanted it for so long.

Without thinking at all, Jacob reaches up and grabs Marcus by the back of the neck, pulling his face towards him and kissing him, deeply. Marcus’s jaw is set, his expression as furious as ever, but he kisses him back, eyes slipping shut as he begins to move.

Jacob shuts his eyes. In the darkness of his own head, he feels everything so acutely; Marcus’s fingers digging into his thigh, his other hand holding his wrist, holding him down. And his hard cock, fucking into him, filling him, a little painful, but so fucking good. Jacob grabs his own cock, stroking it slowly.

Then Marcus lets go of his thigh and, pushing Jacob’s hand away, takes over. Jacob opens his eyes to find Marcus’s gaze fixed on his face. Marcus is utterly quiet, panting but not moaning. Then he picks up speed, moving both his hips and his hand quicker, and Jacob can’t, he just fucking can’t, because Marcus’s face is swimming above him, green eyes, thin lips, angry and beautiful, and Jacob comes.

Marcus lets go, thrusting into him a few times more before he comes as well, with a groan and an expletive, head falling forward to rest on Jacob’s chest. 

He only stays like that for a few seconds. Jacob fights the urge to run his fingers through short, chestnut curls. He can feel Marcus’s hot breath against his skin as he tries to control his own breathing. The fact that Marcus must be feeling Jacob’s heartbeat against his forehead makes the whole thing feel impossibly and dangerously intimate. 

Then Marcus shifts, sliding out of him and sitting up, removing the condom. Jacob stares up at him, slightly dazed, still panting. 

Marcus cocks an eyebrow. ‘What, do you want a cuddle and a fag? Get up!’

Jacob does as he’s told, gathering up his clothes. Marcus sits down at his desk, stark naked, and opens his laptop. Jacob tries not to feel disappointed. It’s not like he wants some sort of relationship with the fucking twat, but he had perhaps hoped that he could at least treat him like a mate rather than a nuisance. 

He brings his clothes into the bathroom and cleans the cum off his belly with toilet paper. Then he pulls his clothes on before stepping back out into the room. Marcus has put on his reading glasses and is staring at the screen of his laptop.

‘I’ll be off, then, I suppose,’ says Jacob. Marcus makes a noncommittal grunt in response. 

On his way to the bus, Jacob lights a cigarette. He wants to go back. It’s irrational and it’s stupid and it makes him feel like a fucking girl, but he wants to go back and hug Marcus and kiss him and make him see that he doesn’t have to be alone and angry and miserable all the time, which is ironic since Jacob himself is mostly alone and angry all the time, though perhaps not quite so miserable.

He coughs and wheezes and puts out his cigarette. 

* * *

Jacob spends his weekend working on an assignment. On Sunday he has a coffee with an old classmate (read: one time on and off boyfriend), and he couldn’t tell himself why he agreed to it, because Oliver is boring as fuck and always has been.

His own coughing wakes him up in the wee hours of Monday morning, and when he finds that he can’t breathe, he grabs his inhaler from the bedside table. It helps a little, but he’s still coughing, and he’s still having trouble breathing, and after a few minutes he decides he had better ask his mother or his sister to take him to A&E.

They both come with him.

By the time symptoms have subsided he’s missed most of his lectures and is late for the editorial meeting, and so decides he just can’t be arsed. He goes back home and spends the rest of the afternoon in bed, reading.

He is very surprised when his phone rings and it turns out to be Marcus.

‘Where the fuck were you today? I need you at those meetings, you’re the only one who’s not about as fucking useful to me as a porno on fucking betamax!’

‘Fuck off, Marcus, I had a fucking asthma attack this morning, all right? Spent the day in A&E.’ Jacob scratches his head and yawns.

Marcus is quiet for a moment. ‘Oh . . . I didn’t know you had asthma.’ Pause. ‘Don’t you smoke like a fucking pack a day?’

‘My asthma and my smoking habits are none of your fucking concern!’

‘Well, sure, if you want to land yourself in an early fucking grave, don’t let me stop you!’

Jacob almost laughs. ‘You’ve made it pretty fucking clear to me that you don’t give a shit about me, so leave me the fuck alone, yeah?’

Marcus makes a frustrated sort of noise. ‘I _don’t_ give a shit about you. Forget I said anything, just . . . Let someone know if you can’t make it to the meeting, okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good.’

There’s another pause. Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Piss off, then,’ he prompts.

‘Yeah. Bye.’

* * *

Jacob can’t help but feel like something is up. For the past couple of weeks it feels like Marcus has been keeping a very close eye on him. They’re back on regular speaking terms, but Marcus seems somehow _nicer_. Jacob doesn’t like that at all. Marcus doesn’t rise to his baits the way he normally does. He still shouts at him, of course—anything else would surely be a sign that the whole fucking world’s about to explode—but it takes a lot more to get him going, and sometimes he just smiles at Jacob’s quips. 

It’s very unsettling. Marcus is a very hard man. Everyone knows that, and most respect it, because even if he’s a cynical, foul-mouthed, evil bastard, at least he’s like that to everyone. Jacob doesn’t think anyone else has noticed yet, but it’s only a matter of time if Marcus keeps being so fucking soft on him all the time.

Then comes a day when Jacob is standing outside the SU having a fag with some people, and he gets a coughing fit. He doubles over, gasping for breath, and drops his cigarette. He pulls his inhaler out of his pocket and uses it, and he feels his airways clear immediately, but before he can stand up properly and announce that he’s all right, someone has grabbed his arm to steady him, and Marcus’s voice is saying gruffly, ‘You’ve got to quit fucking smoking, you twat!’

‘I’m fine,’ says Jacob, a little wheezily, and it’s mostly true. ‘I’m all right.’ He stands up properly, takes a deep breath and clears his throat, but Marcus still has him by the arm, just a bit harder than necessary. He looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘I said, I’m fucking fine.’

Marcus lets go, slowly, but he still stands very close. ‘You need anything?’

Jacob stares at him in amazement, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing. The other people around them look on in bemusement. Jacob opens his mouth, but Marcus grabs his arm again.

‘I need a word,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’

He steers Jacob unceremoniously across the Circle, to Block C, up the stairs, into Corridor 2b, and to room 217. The whole way, Jacob says nothing, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Marcus sits him down on the bed and fetches a glass of water from the sink, which he hands to him. Then he sits in his desk chair, green eyes fixed on Jacob as he hesitantly drinks.

‘Are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?’ asks Jacob after a minute.

Marcus shrugs, crossing his arms. ‘I just, er . . . wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He licks his lower lip.

Jacob stares at him for a few seconds, and then bursts out laughing. ‘Okay, do me a favour, Marcus, and spare me your fucking pity, all right? I’m not fucking enfeebled!’

‘You need to quit smoking.’

‘You need to mind your own fucking business!’

‘You should have told me!’ Marcus’s voice is no longer calm. ‘Before we fucked, you should have fucking told me that you’ve got a worse wheeze than Amy Winehouse’s fucking hairdresser after emptying three cans of fucking hairspray!’

‘My asthma barely even registers, all right? I—’

‘What would I have done, eh? What would I have done if you’d had a fucking attack while we were—’

‘Oh, so _that_ ’s what this is! You covering your own arse!’ Jacob puts down his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your fucking concern, Marcus, but as previously established, you don’t give a rat’s dying shit about me, so . . .’ He stands up to leave. 

Marcus stands, too, and grabs his arm again, fixing him with his hypnotic gaze. There’s rage there, and determination, and perhaps just a small hint of desperation, before he grabs Jacob’s head in his hands and kisses him.

Very confused and just a little bit annoyed, Jacob pulls away. ‘You know, you’re sending some pretty mixed signals here.’

‘What are you, a fucking girl?’ Marcus retorts. ‘You want a pledge of undying fucking love or some shit like that?’

‘No! I just . . . I don’t get what you want.’ It’s stupid, because he knows Marcus will never say that he wants him. He’s not sure he even wants to hear it. Anyway, all the answer he really needs is in Marcus’s blazing green eyes, and before he has time to think about it any more, he leans in and kisses him.

Marcus soon has him up against the wall. He moves his lips to Jacob’s throat while he opens his shirt, one button at a time. He’s working slowly, and he’s nibbling and licking more than biting at Jacob’s throat.

Jacob narrows his eyes. ‘Are you being gentle with me?’

Marcus stops. Looks at him.

‘I’m not made of fucking glass, all right? I don’t want you to be gentle with me. I don’t like gentle.’

‘Well, too fucking bad!’ Marcus resumes work.

Well, thinks Jacob, two can play that game, and he raises one hand, running it softly through Marcus’s hair, and kisses gently behind his ear. ‘See how you like it, arsehole,’ he whispers. ‘Me being soft,’ kiss, ‘sweet,’ kiss, ‘and gentle with you.’ He makes his lips soft and pliant and kisses Marcus, gently running his tongue along his bottom lip.

Marcus pulls back. ‘Stop that!’ he complains. ‘Or I’ll—’

‘Or you’ll what? Fuck me gently, like the song? Piss off, Marcus!’ It occurs to Jacob that this may well be the most bizarre conversation two people have ever had.

‘Fine.’ Marcus grabs him by the hair and pulls. He speaks through gritted teeth. ‘Have it your way!’

It’s hard and it’s fast. Marcus’s body is like marble, unyielding, and his hands and teeth are merciless, leaving red marks in their wake. Jacob gasps at every hard touch. But then, occasionally, it’s as if the cold marble that is Marcus yields to Jacob’s chisel, changing shape just a little. Just enough.

When it’s over, Marcus lies down next to him in the narrow bed, pushing him over onto his side and wrapping himself around him. He’s not being sweet or gentle, not kissing him or saying anything at all, but he holds him tightly.

Jacob feels uncomfortable in the silence. In the end, he asks, ‘How’s your dad?’

Marcus stiffens against him, but he doesn’t push him out of the bed, or shout at him. ‘He’s started chemo. With any luck he’ll be puking and cursing his maker by now. No less than the fucker deserves.’

Jacob hesitates. ‘And you? Are you okay?’

Marcus laughs. ‘Of course I’m fucking okay!’ Then he murmurs something that may have been ‘retard’ or possibly ‘twat fart’, and Jacob’s third guess is too ridiculous to even consider.

* * *

Marcus is leaning over a desk. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up to his elbows, he’s wearing his reading glasses and he has a pencil tucked behind his ear. Looking up, he catches sight of Jacob and waves him over.

‘You! Fucking Ben Whishaw’s retarded cousin! Get over here!’

Jacob tries not to smile as he saunters up to the desk. ‘What do you want, fuckface?’

‘Have a look at this layout, it looks all fucked up, doesn’t it?’ Marcus takes the pencil from behind his ear and starts pointing out everything that’s wrong with the layout of the front page of this week’s edition. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Jacob leans against the desk, studying the page. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’

‘Well?’ Marcus glares at him, one eyebrow raised. 

‘Well, what?’

Marcus grabs Jacob’s arm, squeezing it hard. ‘Take this fucking train wreck of a front page _back_ to Fiona and tell her to sort the layout, or I will personally beat her to death with a shovel!’

‘Yes, sir, your eminent cunt-hose, sir!’ Jacob makes a mock salute and picks up the edited page. ‘Drinks tonight?’ _Sex tonight?_

Marcus stares at him for a moment. ‘Do I look like I have the fucking time to fuck around with you? I’ve got fucking deadlines!’ _Come around late, don’t make too much noise._

Jacob grins. ‘Laters, twat!’

‘Yeah, try not to let Fiona lower your fucking IQ too much, dickface!’

Jacob has the distinct feeling that Marcus is discreetly checking out his arse as he walks away. 

Nobody knows they’re fucking, and even if they do, they’re not going to say anything. They’re not boyfriends, they haven’t made any promises, there’s no forever or silly little words or dates or flowers or anything like that. But—and if Marcus asks, Jacob will categorically deny ever having thought any such thing—Jacob doesn’t want to fuck anyone else.

Not ever.


	2. Hard

Marcus slams down a blue binder of material for next week’s edition on the desk and glares around at his team. ‘All right, then, my little cumbuckets! This week’s issue is out. What bits of journalistic fuckery have you got for me today? Glenn!’

‘Er . . .’ The second year IT student shuffles his notes nervously. ‘I was, er, I was thinking of maybe writing a piece on, er, you know, the state of the, er, cafeteria food—’

‘Fine, good, go for it. Fucking own those dinner ladies. Sami?’

‘Head of Music’s retiring once the year’s out,’ says Sami, brushing back a strand of her red hair. ‘I thought I might try and get the scoop on his replacement.’

‘About fucking time. How old is that twatwaffle? Ninety? Give it your best shot, see what you find. Now, has anyone got a nun’s fart of a clue about what to put in the political section? Jacob, give me something.’

Jacob is leaning back in his seat, sucking on the end of a pencil. He meets Marcus’s gaze with a small smile, and Marcus crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow pointedly.

‘Government’s war on the Internet? The whole porn issue?’ Jacob suggests, taking the pencil out of his mouth and licking his lips.

‘Yeah, good. Write that up. Give it some fucking edge, yeah?’

‘Excuse me,’ says Fiona, raising her hand, ‘but shouldn’t a woman write that one? There’s a really important feminist angle to this and—’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jacob waves a hand dismissively. ‘I’ll get the fucking feminazi angle, don’t you worry your pretty little head with it, darling.’

As Fiona splutters in red-faced indignation, Marcus feels secretly proud. ‘All right, you two, quit flirting. Don’t wanna get cum all over the floor. You, cuntflap, I want a word.’

He grabs Jacob by the arm and drags him along out into a deserted stairwell. Jacob leans against the railing and looks cockily up at Marcus, who is standing rather a bit closer than he needs to. ‘Yes?’ he says, questioningly, a small smile playing on his lips. 

‘All jokes aside, Fiona is right. You have to address this issue from every angle, cover the feminist perspective, cover the religious perspective. I don’t want it to sound like you’re just some guy who doesn’t want his easy access to fucking fapping material taken away, yeah?’

‘I don’t even watch porn anymore, mate,’ says Jacob. ‘Don’t fucking need to, do I?’

Marcus leans a little closer and murmurs, ‘Well, do this right, and I might just reward you by fucking you over that desk after everyone’s gone home.’

‘Mm, promises, promises,’ Jacob purrs. ‘It shall be done as you command, Master Hard Cock McArsemuffin.’

* * *

‘He loves you really. You know that, don’t you?’

Marcus grips his mobile phone tighter, clenching his jaw. This is not a conversation he wants to be having. A fucking orchiectomy would be preferable to having this conversation. ‘Yeah? Well, he’s had a funny way of showing it!’

His mother sighs. ‘I understand that you don’t want to . . . But, please, just think about it. Come up for a weekend or something. Just to see him, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I’ll think about it, okay? I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.’

‘That’s all I ask, love.’ His mother pauses. ‘How’s . . . How’s everything? Are you working hard? How’s the paper?’

‘Fine. It’s all fine. Look, I have to go, okay?’

‘All right, sweetheart. Take care!’

‘Yeah. You too.’

Marcus drops his phone on the desk with a clatter. Then he leans forward, resting his face in his hands. He hasn’t spoken to his father since he found out about the cancer, and one might say that the words exchanged then were none too friendly. The bastard must be doing very poorly indeed for his mother to call and beg him to come visit. 

There’s a knock on his door. ‘Fuck off!’ Marcus calls automatically.

‘It’s me.’

Marcus sighs and stands up, running his hand through his hair, and goes to open the door. ‘What do you want, you twat?’

Jacob grins at him. ‘Just felt like dropping by.’

Against his better judgment, Marcus steps aside and lets him in, closing the door behind him. Then he rubs his eyes and goes to sit down at his desk again, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

Jacob cocks his head to one side and studies him with intelligent brown eyes. They’ve been fucking for a couple of months now—angry, unsentimental and often quite violent sex. Sometimes Marcus thinks that Jacob must be fucking psychotic to want it, to want him. Occasionally Jacob stays over, sneaking out in the wee hours before any of Marcus’s flatmates have time to see him. Occasionally, Marcus wakes up alone and wishes that he wasn’t. Not that he’ll ever, ever tell anyone that, least of all his lover. 

‘You all right?’ asks Jacob.

‘Fine. Fucking a-ok.’ Marcus doesn’t meet Jacob’s gaze. Sometimes he just doesn’t know how to deal with the little shit. Not when he stares him down and sees right through him, making him feel naked and vulnerable. He doesn’t like feeling vulnerable. Marcus almost trusts Jacob. Almost. But not enough.

‘Okay. Good.’ Jacob runs a hand through his dark hair and smiles. ‘I finished the story for the politics section. I’ve e-mailed it to you, so you can look it over.’

Marcus rubs his chin with his fingers. ‘The porn thing?’ 

Jacob nods. Then he runs his tongue across his bottom lip. Takes a small step closer. ‘So, speaking of porn—’

‘Yeah, maybe not tonight, eh?’ Marcus forces himself to look at Jacob. Forces himself to glare. Hopes to fuck that Jacob will get it, that he won’t fight him. ‘I’m just, I’m bone-dead fucking exhausted and I have a fucking deadline to meet—’

‘Fine, yeah. Tomorrow, maybe.’

‘Working tomorrow.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jacob nods. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll fuck off home, then.’ He turns to leave.

‘Jacob.’ Marcus swivels his chair around a bit. ‘Come by Friday?’

‘Will do.’

They don’t kiss. They never kiss unless they’re fucking. Nor do they touch, though they usually do that any chance they get. But the look they share just before Jacob leaves the room somehow feels more significant than any kiss or touch could.

* * *

Jacob is gasping beneath him and Marcus slows down, just a little, listening to his breathing. Confident that Jacob’s asthma hasn’t flared up, he picks up speed again, pushing into him, very nearly crying out because fucking Jacob feels like the good kind of dying, but managing not to by biting his lip. Jacob shudders and comes in Marcus’s hand, and Marcus kisses him, hard, swallowing his moans. Then he comes himself and groans, ‘ _Fuck_. . .’ through gritted teeth before he collapses on top of him.

The sound of Jacob’s heartbeat is comforting, and for a moment Marcus thinks he could fall asleep here, but then he remembers who he is, and who Jacob is, and he rolls off him with a sigh.

They lie there in silence for a little while, Jacob still breathing heavily and Marcus trying to calm his pulse.

‘I’ve been editing that article that Glenn wrote, on the cafeteria food,’ Jacob tells him after a while. ‘It’s the most horrendous piece of shit I’ve ever read. It reads like someone put something by Stephanie Meyer through a blender and then shat on it. That fucktard has no business writing anything.’

‘I’ll have a word on Monday,’ says Marcus with a sigh. ‘I’ll tell him either he comes up with something better or he’ll be out on his fucking arse blowing old men in back alleys.’

Jacob laughs. It’s a welcome sound, and Marcus almost smiles.

Then his mobile rings. ‘Fucking hell, what now?’ Marcus mutters and leans over Jacob’s chest to reach the phone on his bedside table. It’s his mother. ‘Shit . . .’ He stares at the screen for a few moments before answering. ‘Yeah?’

‘Marcus, darling . . . Listen, things aren’t going so well with your father.’ Her voice sounds shaky. She’s been crying. ‘The, erm . . . The chemo isn’t taking. And they haven’t found a donor, so . . . He probably hasn’t got long.’ Marcus makes a grunting noise to let her know he’s still listening. ‘Please, will you come up? He might not . . . I just don’t want you to regret—’

‘You don’t want me to regret not seeing him. What if I regret _seeing_ him, you ever think of that? It’s nothing less than the fucker deserves!’

‘Marcus!’ says his mother sharply. ‘Please.’

Marcus takes a deep breath and runs his free hand through his hair. Then he lets it drop and it comes to rest on Jacob’s hand, and unthinkingly he squeezes the other man’s fingers. ‘Yeah. All right. I’ll get a train up in the morning.’

‘Thank you. I love you.’

‘Yeah. Me too. Bye.’

Marcus hangs up and moves his hand away from Jacob’s, suddenly aware. Jacob props himself up on his elbows and studies him. 

‘You all right? Was it . . .’ Jacob trails off, looking away.

‘Yeah, it’s—he’s not doing well. My mum wants me to come up and see him in hospital.’

‘Oh.’

Marcus discovers that the hand holding his mobile is shaking, and he puts the phone down, hoping Jacob hasn’t noticed. He wants to hit someone, destroy something. Scream and shout. He wants to fuck, or be fucked. He wants to kiss Jacob or beat him to a pulp. At this moment, he doesn’t trust himself not to do one or all of these things, so he says, ‘You should probably go home, I . . . I just, fuck, I need to think.’

‘Yeah. Okay.’ And because they’re in bed, and they’ve just fucked and it seems natural, Marcus doesn’t push Jacob away when he kisses him, a bit less forcefully than usual. Marcus stays in his bed, staring at the mattress, while Jacob goes to the bog and gets dressed. 

‘See you on Monday, then?’ says Jacob.

‘Yeah. Now get the fuck out, you wanker.’

‘Laters, twat.’ And then Jacob is gone, and Marcus has only himself and his mind to contend with.

He gets out of bed, tosses back some cheap vodka, puts on some music. He wishes, for a moment, that he still smoked, but he quit two years ago and there are no cigarettes in his room. No drugs either. He feels like he needs to do something destructive. In the end he settles for tearing up some lecture notes. It’s just contract law, he knows it, he doesn’t need the fucking notes. Later he’s going to remember that there was some important information among those notes and curse himself for it.

He doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried in years. He suspects his fucking tear ducts have shrivelled up and died a long time ago. But he lies in his bed on his stomach, heart pounding in his ears, gripping the pillow so hard his hands hurt. Then he gets himself off, twice, because it feels like the thing to do, and eventually falls asleep in moist sheets, wishing he had asked Jacob to stay and terrified of what he might have done to him if he had. And anyway, he would rather stab himself repeatedly in the face than let anyone see him like this, least of all Jacob.

* * *

Marcus’s mother hugs him tightly. ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ she mumbles into his chest. She seems so small. It’s been many years since Marcus was smaller than her, able to take refuge from the world in his mother’s arms. Now she smiles at him, though her eyes are sad and wet, holds his lightly stubbled face in her hands and gets up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to him.’

The room his father is in is stark and white. There’s another bed, but its occupant is fast asleep behind a white curtain. Marcus approaches his father’s bed, slowly. On the bedside table lie his father’s glasses, and his rosary. His mother lingers in the doorway for a little while, and then scurries off.

The old man in the bed looks a lot like Marcus. Same long, pointy nose, same sharp cheekbones, same disapproving green eyes. He’s not that old, really, only in his fifties, but just then he looks like he’s eighty.

He coughs, wheezes and says, ‘So, you decided to show up.’ His voice sounds like gravel and tobacco ash.

‘I’m not here for you. I’m here for Ma.’ Marcus works his jaw and swallows. ‘How are you?’ he asks after some moments.

‘Dying. You?’

‘Not too bad.’

Brian Allen almost laughs. Then he coughs again. ‘You could . . . _pretend_ you’re sorry.’

‘Why?’ Marcus clenches his fist, trying to keep his voice at an acceptable level, but he really wants to shout. ‘Why should I care about you all of a sudden just cause you’re sick? After everything you—’

‘After everything I what? I never beat you! I fed and clothed you, you ungrateful little shit—’

Marcus talks over him. Oh yeah, he supposes he should be thanking the old fucker for not hitting him, because fuck knows that’s the worst he could have done. Never mind that he’d come home drunk at two in the morning and pass out in a pool of his own sick. Never mind that he would wake Marcus up with his shouting, make him clean up after his father while his mother cowered in the kitchen, making cup of tea after cup of bloody tea for something to do. Compared to what Brian did put his family through, a couple of beatings would have ben a fucking blessing. Marcus is pacing now, shouting, not caring whether it wakes the room’s other occupant (he seems dead to the world, anyway), gesticulating wildly and spewing up every piece of resentment and fucking anger and hate he’s kept inside him since the day he got big enough, and his father smart enough that he left him alone.

‘So no,’ he concludes, ‘I don’t give two shits and a flying fuck that you’re dying! I hope you go to fucking Hell!’ He stands still for a moment, panting, shaking, staring down the old ashen faced man in the bed.

His father fixes him with his cold gaze. ‘Thought you didn’t believe in Hell,’ he rasps.

‘I don’t, but you do.’

‘What d’you know,’ the old man takes a few shallow breaths and leans back into his pillows, ‘you turned into me after all.’

Marcus wants to punch him in the face then, but it occurs to him that that would probably be frowned upon by hospital staff. So instead he takes a deep breath, straightens his back and says, as calmly as he can manage, ‘Oh, by the way, _Dad_ , I met someone. _His_ name is Jacob. We’ve been fucking for two months.’

Then he leaves the room, pleased that he at the very least got the last word.

* * *

Marcus spends the night in his old bedroom. He can’t sleep. For a wild moment, he considers texting Jacob, but then that makes it feel like they’re in some kind of stupid relationship. And they’re not. They’re just fucking. Of course, that isn’t what he implied to his dad, in that odd moment of triumphant defiance, and that makes everything all the more confusing. The short, psychotic cannonball that is Jacob has crowded into his space, dug a hole and made itself at home—fucked him royally and mercilessly, figuratively speaking, until Marcus no longer knows where he ends and Jacob begins.

He returns to uni the following day, spends some time writing, and goes to bed early. At 11:03 P.M. he gets a phone call from his mother. At 11:05 he’s lying under his covers, shaking, unable to interpret the sick feeling in his stomach, bile rising in his throat. With eyes wide open he stares into the darkness, listening to his own breathing and heartbeat. Then he writes a short text to Jacob.

_Need you to head the editorial meeting tomorrow. I can’t make it._

* * *

No more than three minutes after the editorial meeting is supposed to have ended, someone is pounding on Marcus’s door. Marcus is in his bed, wearing nothing but his pants. Tomorrow, he will board another train and go to his mother to help her with funeral arrangements. Thursday’s tutorial has been postponed until next week, and he’s had the deadline for his assignment extended. He’s had what was left in his vodka bottle, enough that he’s dizzy and a little warm.

He gets out of bed and opens the door, and Jacob comes barrelling inside at roughly the speed of sound. Shutting and locking the door behind him, he stares at Marcus for a few seconds with wild brown eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and his dark hair stands every which way, making him look even scruffier than usual. Marcus doesn’t have to say anything. Jacob, it seems, just knows, and a second later, he’s got his arms tightly around him, and usually Marcus would push him off and tell him not to be such a fucking pussy, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. He lets Jacob kiss him, push him up against the wall, pull his hair and bite at his throat until he is feverish with desire.

‘Jacob,’ he gasps. ‘I . . . I need you to . . .’ He hesitates.

‘Whatever you need,’ Jacob whispers fiercely, and it sends a shiver through Marcus’s body to hear it, even though he knows, has always known, that however much he might keep Jacob at arm’s length, the boy will always be there for him with every inch of his five foot eight.

‘Fuck me,’ Marcus murmurs. ‘Just . . . Do it. Make it hurt.’

Jacob utters a possessive growl and attacks his throat again with tongue and teeth. He squeezes and twists Marcus’s nipple, and Marcus winces, throwing his head back against the wall with a thump. Jacob’s bites are going to leave marks. Marcus doesn’t care. 

Now he’s being pulled roughly away from the wall and pushed down onto bed. Jacob keeps his eyes fixed on him while he pulls off his hoodie and t-shirt. Then he climbs into bed and peels off Marcus’s pants. 

He uses a minimal amount of lube while he preps him. It’s not the first time Marcus has a finger in his arse, and it’s clearly not the first time Jacob is in his current position either. Marcus throws his head back and sees stars as Jacob crooks his finger. It hurts in all the right ways, the pressure against his prostate just a little more than he thinks he can bear, and Marcus holds his breath, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and takes it. He is rock hard and leaking pre cum and he _wants to come_ but fucking refuses to try and touch himself to get his release.

Jacob’s movements are steady and deliberate. Usually, he is fast and impulsive and impatient, a fucking brilliant child on speed, hungry and angry. But now he acts with infinite patience, so giving, and this kindness is a particular brand of fucking cruelty. He is waiting for Marcus to beg. Marcus never begs. And still, now he sucks in a breath of air through gritted teeth and hisses, ‘Fuck! Jacob, fucking . . . I . . . Please!’

Finally, Jacob withdraws his finger and takes off the rest of his own clothes, fishing a condom out of his pocket. Then, hooking one of Marcus’s long legs over his shoulder, he pushes inside, and this time Marcus really does whimper. Jacob holds him down with a hand at his throat, and now he’s in bollocks deep. Marcus pushes back against him. It feels like he can’t breathe. His body is burning, shaking. Jacob pulls out again, almost all the way, and thrusts inside once more with a groan. He leans forward and bites into Marcus’s throat again.

Marcus clings to him, begging him with his body to go faster, do it harder, not hold back. And when he begins to sob—tearless, desperate sounds escaping from his lips against his will—Jacob pretends not to notice, gripping his arm just a bit too tightly, kissing him just a bit too hard, fucking into him with abandon until they both come. To Marcus, every thrust, every bite and every hard touch is like a comforting caress.

Afterwards, they lie on the narrow bed, facing one another. Marcus is much taller than Jacob, but he curls up in the foetal position, and when Jacob puts his arms around him, he feels much smaller than he’s felt in years. Usually this would bother him. Usually, he’d need to be the big man, the one in charge. But not today. It’s only four in the afternoon. It’s raining outside.

‘How did the meeting go?’ Marcus asks after a while. 

‘Fuck, who cares about the shitting meeting—’

‘Just answer the question, fuckface.’ Marcus doesn’t have the energy to raise his voice, but his tone seems to get his point across. 

‘It went okay. Everyone was as fucking useless as always, but we’ll have a solid issue for next week, I think. Unless Glenn fucks up even worse than usual, and the only way that could happen is if he spends the entire week self-fellating instead of doing any actual writing.’ Jacob pauses. ‘Which is a definite possibility,’ he adds as an afterthought. He rests his chin on the top of Marcus’s head. When he speaks next, Marcus feels his warm breath in his hair. ‘I’m guessing you won’t be contributing much this week?’

‘No.’

‘When’s the funeral?’

Marcus curls up tighter and digs his forehead into Jacob’s hairy chest. His diaphragm feels tight all of a sudden. There’s a pain somewhere that he can’t place. ‘Friday,’ he manages. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow, to help my mum.’ They’re quiet for a few moments, before Marcus speaks again. ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead. He was such a fucking horrible cunting drunk, he doesn’t deserve my pity or my regret or any fucking piece of me. I’m not sorry, but I feel—’ He cuts himself off. He’s not talking about his feelings to Jacob. He’s not talking about his feelings to anyone. He refuses to be a whiny cunt. That isn’t him. That’s other people.

But Jacob only holds him tighter, and Marcus is grateful for that. After several minutes, he lets out a long breath and relaxes his shoulders slightly. He stretches out a bit, so he’s less small, and brings his face up to the same level as Jacob’s.

Jacob looks at him, and almost smiles, and then he’s kissing him again. Gently this time. More gently than he has any right to. More gently than he ever will again. This is the last time that Marcus will let anyone see him like this. He promises himself that. Then he kisses Jacob back, and doesn’t care that he’s crossed over into sweet, romantic fucking hand-holding territory. Doesn’t care that Jacob is running his fingers softly through his hair, stroking his back soothingly. Doesn’t care that this is the most intimate moment of his life, and won’t realise until much later how sad that really is.

They stay there for most of the day. For dinner, they share a pizza Marcus had in the freezer, after Jacob tells him in no uncertain terms that he will fucking force feed him if he doesn’t eat something of his own volition. Jacob never leaves Marcus’s room. Doesn’t even go out for a fag. He stays with him. They don’t really talk much. Mostly they sit on the bed, shoulders touching, watching mindless entertainment programmes on the iPlayer. Then, in between episodes of _QI_ and _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_ , they’ll kiss or get each other off, and it’s okay that Marcus is a little bit soft, a little bit needy, because no one can see but Jacob, and Marcus wonders when that happened, when that became okay.

Jacob stays the night, and Marcus wakes up at three, sweating and almost crying, from some fucked up dream in which his father bursts into the room, bigger than he ever was in life, foaming at the mouth and shouting abuse, trying to take Jacob away from him. 

Jacob just pulls him closer, stroking his hair and telling him, ‘It’s okay, love, go back to sleep.’ And Marcus lets him get away with calling him ‘love’, just this once.

Marcus is a hard man, but just this once, just for today, it feels good not to have to be.

* * *

Marcus returns on Saturday afternoon and is wholly unsurprised when Jacob turns up on campus with a bottle of wine and curry take-away. Marcus doesn’t tell him he’s missed him, even though he has, and he doesn’t hug him or kiss him, even though there’s something inside him that really wants to. The funeral is over, and it’s nothing he wishes to think about or even remember. Marcus is done being vulnerable. It’s time to get back to normal.

’So, how did you dripping cunt rags get on without me this week?’ he asks, taking a sip of wine (it’s cheap red, from the bottom shelf at Asda, but he doesn’t really care).

‘I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly capable of running the paper without you, the Oncoming Shitstorm,’ Jacob tells him proudly. ‘You’re obsolete, mate. You can fucking retire.’

‘Yeah, yeah, quit jerking off and tell me how it went.’

‘Sami covered the debate for the SU election, I wrote a follow-up to last week’s piece about the porn, leading in nicely to an opinion piece of Fiona’s on Internet piracy, which I frankly thought would be way beyond her scope, but she did well. It’s possible Sami was whispering in her ear the whole time, but . . . Either way, we’ve got an edition coming out on Monday that just might not die a horrible death like some aborted test-tube baby.’

‘I’ll have to name you as my successor, it seems,’ says Marcus. ‘Now, finish your curry so we can fuck already. I’ve got the blue balls from fucking hell.’

Jacob puts his styrofoam container on the desk and takes Marcus’s wine glass from him, before straddling his lap. ‘As you command,’ he whispers.

Marcus grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back to expose his throat, and Jacob gasps and shudders, just as he should.

If it’s any different than usual, Marcus blames it on the two of them not having seen each other for days. If it’s a little harder and a little more desperate, it’s just because Marcus really needs to get off, and to be in charge again. And if the aftermath seems a little softer, a little sweeter, it’s all in their heads.

That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.


	3. Weak

‘Hey, Jacob.’ Sami sits down next to him at the bar. She’s drinking JD and coke, and her short red hair is kept away from her face by several childish, colourful hair clips. ‘How’s tricks, then?’

‘Turning,’ Jacob replies with a wave of his whisky tumbler. ‘Like a hooker at a truck stop. What can I do you for?’

‘Just fancied a chat, really.’

Jacob examines her face with narrow eyes. Is she trying to flirt with him? No, she’s got that look, like a dog sniffing out a fox in its hole. She’s up to something. ‘No, you didn’t,’ says Jacob calmly. ‘Why don’t you get to the fucking point, Nancy Drew?’

Sami pretends she hasn’t heard him, and takes a sip of her drink before looking at him again. ‘So, you and Marcus,’ she says conversationally, ‘you’re fucking, aren’t you?’

Jacob blinks, and it takes him a second to fully realise what he just heard. Then he scoffs. ‘Where did you get _that_ stupid idea?’

‘Oh, come off it, Jacob! It’s fucking obvious, isn’t it?’ Sami smiles. ‘And you know, being gay isn’t really a big deal in today’s climate. The LGBT Society here is huge, you know. I’m a support member.’

Jacob can’t help himself. ‘Just a support member, eh?’ He smirks.

‘Yeah, actually. Don’t get why you and Marcus don’t just come out. You would be a real power couple.’

‘Yeah, well, we’re not actually fucking, so, you know, fuck you.’

‘Yeah, you are. Anyone can see it. Sooner you admit it the better.’

‘Okay, listen to me, you vapid bitch!’ Jacob growls. ‘I’m gonna pretend this conversation never fucking happened, and if you tell anyone that it did, I will rip out your intestines and use them for a skipping rope, understood?’

‘Well, that was melodramatic,’ says Sami. 

Jacob stands up, drains his glass and gives her a two fingered salute. ‘Fuck off, Sam.’

Sami smiles sweetly. ‘Likewise!’

Jacob turns his back on her and heads towards the exit.

‘The whole editorial team knows!’ she calls after him. ‘It’ll only be a matter of time before everyone else does too.’

* * *

Marcus stares at his computer screen. He’s been doing that for about half an hour now. His desk is piled high with books, binders full of notes, post-its and empty cans of Red Bull. He hasn’t written a fucking word. Now he takes off his reading glasses, tossing them unceremoniously onto his keyboard, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, exhaling heavily. He’s done the research, he knows what he’s writing, but it’s just not coming. It’s bad timing for writer’s block.

His mobile rings, and he stares at it where it lies buzzing on top of an intellectual property law textbook. Jacob’s name flashes on the screen. Marcus ignores it. He doesn’t have time for the little fuckwit right now. Putting his glasses back on, he turns back to his screen, thinking he should at least type in the title and come up with an eye-catching subtitle, and he continues to ignore Jacob’s incoming calls and no less than three texts. Then his phone falls silent, at last, and he believes for two whole minutes that he’s going to be left alone, but then someone starts pounding on his door.

‘I know you’re in there, Marcus! Your lights are on! Let me in, it’s important! I need to fucking talk to you, you washed out fucking loser!’

With an angry growl, Marcus stands up and stomps to the door, wrenching it open. Jacob pushes past him and sits down on his bed, fixing him with a glare. ‘Why don’t you fucking answer your fucking phone? I had to get that fucking Dutch exchange twat to let me in, can’t understand a word the bitch says!’

‘All right, what’s so fucking important?’ asks Marcus, crossing his arms. ‘What, did Glenn finally write a piece so bad that it actually fucking imploded the time-space continuum?’

Now that he’s actually in the room, Jacob looks uncharacteristically nervous, and he scratches the back of his hand absentmindedly, eyes cast down. ‘I, er . . . I was talking to Sami, down in the SU bar, and . . .’ He looks up at Marcus again, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. ‘She knows. About us. And she says the others do too and it’s only a matter of time before it gets out. I denied it, but . . .’

Marcus just stands there for a few seconds, staring. Then the full impact of this hits him, and for a moment everything hurts, because what he just heard Jacob say was, _You’re not good enough and I don’t want people to know._ And of course Marcus doesn’t want people to know either, he really doesn’t. He doesn’t want to fucking define this, give it a name, call Jacob his fucking boyfriend and hold hands in public. No fucking way.

So he says, with an air of having no fucks to give, ‘What do you mean, she knows about “us”? There’s no fucking “us”!’

Jacob frowns at him. ‘Well, what the fuck do you call what we’ve been doing for the past four months?’

But Marcus ignores him and presses on. ‘Just cause we fuck doesn’t mean we’re a shitting couple, does it? I mean, for fuck’s sake! It’s a fucking means to an end. We get off sometimes. End of fucking story.’

The look Jacob gives him then is enough to make a lesser man cringe, but Marcus doesn’t even blink. He keeps his face impassive, even as his heart is thundering in his ribcage. Betray nothing. 

‘Well, fuck you then!’ Jacob explodes. ‘You stupid, fucking—you, what—what is your major fucking malfunction, you absolute fucking cunt?’ He stands up and advances on Marcus, fisting his hands in the front of his shirt, and for a moment Marcus thinks he’s going to punch him. ‘I knew you were fucking damaged, man, but this is just—Fuck you.’ He lets go, taking a step back, and stands there, in the middle of the room, gaze lowered to the floor and hands balled into fists, and he looks like he’s shaking. ‘Fuck you, Marcus.’ And he steps around him, opens the door and is gone.

Marcus means to say his name. To shout after him, make him come back. But he doesn’t. Jacob’s name dies on his lips and he’s left wondering what just happened and what the fuck he’s gone and done. 

* * *

Jacob lights a fag with shaking fingers and inhales deeply. Nicotine can fix this, he thinks. Nicotine and maybe some booze. He has a half bottle of cheap whisky at home. It’ll do. It’ll have to fucking do. He walks briskly towards the bus stop, trying not to think, trying not to see Marcus’s cold face swimming in front of his eyes. 

He’s been happy not to put a label on it. Who needs labels? Who needs any of that baggage? But for over four months now they’ve been having fun, enjoying each other, looking out for each other, and for fear of sounding like a fucking girl, Jacob feels a very real and very deep sense of companionship with the skinny fucking twat. Companionship and affection. He feels it in his gut, whenever he sees him, whenever they talk, banter, shout at each other. They’ve fought, about stupid, little shit, and it’s always led to amazing sex and a new level of intimacy, none of which they’ve felt the need to define. They just are, as if they’ve always been.

Fucking Sami and her big mouth. Why’d she have to come along and spoil everything? And fucking Marcus, who’s so damaged and blind and fucking stupid. What’s he trying to do? Keep his masculinity intact? Preserve some relic from his Catholic upbringing?

Jacob has been out since college. He was never really one for relationships, but at some point he defined himself as gay, because it was required of him to do so, and that was fine. No one cared around here. But from what little Marcus has actually shared about himself, he probably didn’t have it so easy. Jacob is far from his first, that much is obvious, but Marcus has probably never been properly out. 

He’s smoked his cigarette down to the filter (a comedian he used to love echoes in his brain, ‘The filter’s the best part, that’s where they keep the heroin!’), and drops it in a puddle. For the first time in a very fucking long time, Jacob wants to cry. Instead, he’ll go home, drink some whisky, and have a wank. A regular fucking Thursday night in. No one will be any the wiser.

* * *

Marcus does pick up when his mother calls. She does that more frequently now than she used to. Sometimes he feels horribly guilty that he doesn’t visit her more often. She must be so lonely now. It makes him even more determined to work hard at his degree. She’s going to need all the financial help she can get now.

‘How’s work coming on your dissertation?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know . . . It’s coming.’ It’s a lie. Most of his weekend was spent staring at his screen and playing with smart putty, and he hates himself for it.

‘That’s wonderful!’ she tells him, and he can hear the swell of pride in her voice. ‘You are doing so well, dear! Just don’t work too hard. Don’t forget to take care of yourself! I hope you find a nice girl to look after you when you’ve finished your degree.’

‘Yeah . . .’ Marcus clenches and unclenches his fist. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, ma, editorial meeting’s starting soon.’

‘Oh, of course! Good luck, sweetheart!’

‘Ta. Bye!’ Marcus hangs up. 

A nice girl . . . He has no idea how to tell his sweet, very Catholic mother—the mother who could never have any more children after him, and who always wanted a daughter, and who desperately longs for grandchildren—that he prefers men. He supposes he should count himself lucky that his father never passed that particular part of their last conversation onto her. 

He sighs, scratching the back of his head. If push comes to shove, he could probably intimidate Fiona into marrying him and popping out a few babies.

Five minutes into the meeting, he scraps that idea, as the female in question has caused another fucktastrophe with the layout of this week’s edition. Graphic design student or no, this is the last time he lets her anywhere near the final book and she should count herself lucky that he doesn’t tear out her eyes and skullfuck her to death. He tells her as much, and she runs away in tears.

The last thing anyone expects is for Jacob to rise to her defence. He aims several choice phrases at Marcus, and then dashes after her. Marcus is left dumbstruck. He thought that he was going to be able to handle facing Jacob. He thought that he would be able to treat him the same as ever. But now he stands here, watching Jacob’s retreating back, and he hasn’t a single word to say.

‘What, aren’t you going to drag them back in here by the hair and make them lick the floor or something like that?’ asks Sami when Marcus simply turns to Glenn with the next point on his agenda.

‘What the fuck for?’ Marcus snaps at her. ‘They both know that either they come back in here and do their fucking jobs or they’re off the team.’

‘But . . .’ Sami seems to hesitate, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face and glancing in the direction Jacob and Fiona disappeared in. ‘But, it’s _Jacob_.’

Marcus only stares at her for a couple of seconds. Then he erupts like fucking Vesuvius. ‘Why the fuck should I give two shits about anything that psychotic fucking blood soaked cuntrag of a cockarse does or doesn’t do beyond his fucking job at this paper? Or that vapid fucking empty-headed imbecile of a whore you call a best friend? Fuck the both of them! In fact, fuck the fucking lot of you if you don’t start focusing on the task at fucking hand, okay? We’ve got a paper to fucking put out! Now focus, or I will fucking gut you and eat your livers! I’ll make Hannibal fucking Lecter look like a nursery school teacher when I’m fucking finished with you, you fucking fucks!’

Glenn has made himself as small as he can and is cowering in his chair, but during Marcus’s tirade Sami has folded her arms across her chest, leaned back and raised an immaculately plucked eyebrow at him, and now she stands up. 

‘Listen, you,’ she says softly. ‘We put up with your shit because you are a fucking brilliant editor in chief, but I have just about had it with your bollocks. Whatever your issue is right now, sort it the fuck out or fuck the fuck off, because I am so done with your theatrics. Don’t think for a second that you can bully me, Marcus!’

Marcus blinks, and swallows. ‘Right.’ He picks up his jacket and his notes. ‘Fine. I have a dissertation to write anyway. Good luck putting out the paper without me.’ Then he turns his back and walks away.

When he reaches the stairwell, he slides down to the floor. He stares at his hands. They’re shaking. He hasn’t eaten all day. And now something seems to be pressing at his throat. Something hurts, somewhere, in some part of his body he can’t easily define. Everything’s fucking unravelling. He takes a few deep breaths and stands up. Copyright and the free web. Copyright and the free web. That’s what he should be focusing on. Copyright and the fucking free web. Everything else can wait. Everything else is fucking irrelevant.

Everything else is shit.

* * *

‘Thanks,’ says Fiona, wiping away her tears with her sleeve and tucking her dark hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t really get why you’re trying to comfort me, though . . . I thought you _worshipped_ Marcus.’

They’re sitting on the floor of the accessibility toilet, and Jacob has an arm around her shoulders. It’s closer than he ever imagined himself being with Fiona, but then at the moment he’s further away from Marcus than he’d ever imagined he’d be, too, figuratively speaking.

He shakes his head, electing to ignore the last bit of her sentence. ‘He was totally out of order. So you made a mistake, big fucking deal. Doesn’t mean he has to threaten you like that.’

‘Yeah, but you’ve said worse things to me than that.’

Jacob is spared having to think up an explanation for that by Sami’s appearance in the doorway. ‘Marcus fucked off,’ she says. ‘God, he’s always been a bit . . . But now I think he’s seriously unhinged.’ She glances at Jacob. ‘Did you two have a fight or what?’

‘Fuck off with that shit, Sami!’ Jacob spits. ‘Look, there’s nothing—I mean, we’re not—’

‘Not fucking. Fine. Whatever you say.’ Sami rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, you should probably run the meeting, Jacob. With Marcus gone, you’re the one with the most experience.’

Jacob nods. ‘Yeah, okay. Come on, then, Fiona. Let’s go be fucking useful, eh?’

* * *

Marcus writes, and he works, and he writes. He drinks Red Bull and coffee and pops caffeine tablets and seriously considers taking speed. He barely sleeps, and doesn’t really eat, and by May he’s exhausted and emaciated and pretty sure he can detect the early warning signs of paranoid fucking schizophrenia. He’s hardly seen people, let alone the sun shine, in weeks. He spends his twenty-third birthday alone in his room with a packet of crisps and several law books.

He hasn’t spoken to Jacob in a month. The annoying little arseleakage tried to call him a few times in the beginning, but seems to have given up. That’s just as well. Marcus doesn’t have time to think about him. Doesn’t have time to deal with any of this shit. The deadline for his dissertation is rapidly approaching, and he still has an exam to sit after that before he can finally walk out of this clusterfuck of a university with a Bachelor of Law.

When he has a moment, though, Marcus checks the campus paper website, and, upon discovering that it hasn’t gone completely to hell, feels a mixture of annoyance and pride.

It’s nine o’clock in the evening on a Wednesday. He’s been to Tesco for fresh supplies and is walking across the Circle towards Block C when he spots Jacob, outside the Student Union, smoking a fag and talking to Fiona, of all people. He says something and she laughs, taking his cigarette from him and putting it to her lips, taking a slow drag, before returning it.

Marcus couldn’t say why this angers him so much, but he stops and stares, unable to help himself. Now Jacob has his arm around Fiona’s shoulder and kisses her cheek, and she giggles. The gesture seems so very intimate. Then Jacob coughs, and Marcus is hit by a strange mixture of wanting to run over there to check that he’s okay, and of wanting to punch him in his smug face.

He is spared from having to make up his mind by Jacob suddenly looking up and spotting him, and he furiously spins on his heel and sets off towards Block C at a brisk pace. When he hears his name being called he walks faster. Thundering footsteps echo behind him, and he breaks into a run. He has longer legs and better lung capacity than Jacob, and soon he’s let himself in and is rushing up the stairs, the instinct to flee stronger than he’s ever felt before.

When he reaches his destination, he tosses the bag full of crisps, chocolate and Red Bull on the bed and sits down on the floor, shaking.

* * *

‘Marcus, you wanker!’ Jacob slams his fist against the door to Block C. He got there just as the door slammed shut, and now he leans his forehead against the glass, swearing softly under his breath. He’s a little drunk and a lot angry.

It’s been easy to ignore everything that’s happened as long as he hasn’t been forced to see Marcus, but enough is fucking enough. Seeing him standing there in the middle of the Circle, looking at him, seemed to tear a hole somewhere. He needs to fill it, and the only way he knows how is to get face to face with Marcus again. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going to happen once he does. He hasn’t planned that far ahead.

‘Haven’t seen _you_ in a while,’ says a voice behind him, and Jacob turns to find Daniel, Marcus’s flat mate, looking at him, arms crossed and head cocked to one side. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You’ve got to let me in, mate!’ Jacob pleads. ‘I need to talk to Marcus.’

Daniel shakes his head. ‘Fuck, no. From what little I’ve seen of him, the bloke’s stressed out beyond belief. If I let you in to harass him he’ll tear out my fucking spine.’

‘And if you don’t, I’ll tear off your bollocks and use them as fucking maracas!’ Jacob shoots back. ‘Please. I’ve just, I’ve got to talk to him. It’s fucking important!’

Daniel rolls his eyes. ‘Fine,’ he says at last. ‘Just keep it down when you get to the fucking, yeah? He’s not the only one who’s got work to do.’

Jacob doesn’t even bother denying it and follows Daniel inside and up the stairs. Once he’s inside the corridor, he hesitates outside room 217. He feels like he should have a plan, something to say, some semblance of an idea, but then he realises that Marcus is _in there_ and something clenches around his guts like a live squid and he raises his hand and starts knocking. No answer.

‘Marcus, let me in, you fucker!’ Jacob bellows, ignoring his earlier promise to Daniel about keeping it down. ‘I need to fucking talk to you, you fucking shit covered twatflap! Let me the fuck in before I knock your fucking door down!’

There’s a noise from within and the door is opened, slowly. Jacob is taken aback by the sight that meets him. 

Marcus looks, somehow, much smaller. His green eyes have a dull sheen to them, and his hair is unwashed. He’s even skinnier than usual, which is quite a feat since the bastard was borderline anorexic before. Seeing him like this, looking so fucking _defeated_ , breaks something inside Jacob’s chest into a million pieces and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he pushes Marcus inside and shuts the door and proceeds to stare at him for almost a full minute.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ asks Marcus at last, breaking the silence.

‘Marc, you look fucking terrible,’ is all Jacob manages to say. 

‘Yes. Thank you. Now fuck off.’

Jacob stays where he is. ‘Are you—’

But Marcus interrupts him and says, ‘You and Fiona looked very fucking cosy out there.’

Jacob stares at him, incredulous. ‘Are you insinuating what it sounds like you’re fucking insinuating? Because if you are I may have to look into having you fucking sectioned! Are you fucking mental?’

Marcus clenches his fists, and there’s a moment of intense, tangible quiet before he explodes. ‘What the fuck are you even doing here, you psychotic fuck? I haven’t got time for your fucking bullshit, all right? I have a deadline to meet, and I have work tomorrow, and I can’t be fucking bothered with your fucking shit, all right? Get the fuck out and leave me the fuck alone!’ He advances on Jacob and pushes him back against the door, and fucked up though it may be, Jacob feels a stirring in the pit of his gut because this is the closest they’ve been in weeks and he just wants to kiss Marcus.

Marcus shakes him roughly. ‘What do you want? Huh? What do you fucking want from me?’

And now Jacob really does kiss Marcus, but Marcus, blinded by rage, pushes him back against the door again with his elbow at his throat. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’

‘All right, then, just hit me!’ Jacob roars. ‘Get on with it, you twat, and fucking hit me!’

There’s a moment where they both just stare at one another, frozen in time. 

‘You want me to fucking hit you?’ Marcus asks very softly.

‘Yes,’ says Jacob, equally softly. ‘If you won’t do anything else, just hit me. I can see you want to. So do it.’ He fists his hand in Marcus’s shirt and whispers, ‘Do it!’

And then Marcus does the cruelest thing he possibly could. He lets go of Jacob, takes a step back and says, ‘No.’

With a growl of frustration, Jacob throws himself at him and knocks him to the floor. They fall right on top of a multipack of Quavers, which bursts open sending several little yellow packets flying everywhere. There’s a struggle, of limbs and fists, and then Marcus is clutching at his cheek and wincing in pain because Jacob just punched him in the face. He retaliates, furiously and without mercy, landing two well-aimed punches in quick succession, one to Jacob’s gut, knocking the wind from his lungs, and one to his jaw.

Jacob’s lip has split open and is bleeding all over the carpet, and he’s doubled over and moaning in pain, feeling like an enormous ponce but deeply and terribly turned on. The scuffle has ended, and Marcus is sitting on the floor a few feet away, rubbing his cheek and muttering profanities. His shirt got torn in the fight.

Drawing a gasping breath, Jacob sits up and makes several rattling coughs. Getting the breath knocked out of him like that seems to have caused his asthma to flare up, and he pulls his inhaler from his pocket.

‘Fuck . . . Are you all right?’ Marcus asks sharply, and when Jacob doesn’t immediately answer he’s by his side in seconds, stroking his back as he coughs.

‘I’m . . . I’m okay,’ Jacob finally manages. Marcus doesn’t move away. Jacob takes another deep breath, and it comes easily enough now, so he dares to look up at the man sitting next to him. ‘What the fuck happened, Marcus?’

Marcus shakes his head, rubbing his stubbled chin with his palm. ‘I don’t fucking know . . .’ He sighs. ‘God, you’re such a fucking—do you know how annoying you are?’

Jacob almost laughs. ‘Yeah. I know.’ He tentatively rests his head on Marcus’s shoulder and is happier than he can express in any sort of language when Marcus doesn’t push him away. He licks his lips. They taste tangy and metallic, but the bleeding’s mostly stopped. Then, for lack of anything better to say, he says, ‘I’ll suck you off if you like.’

Now Marcus actually laughs, shaking his head, and looks down at him, and his expression is almost fond. ‘Yeah, go on, then.’

Jacob slides down so he’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, and undoes Marcus’s trousers. Marcus shifts a bit, pulling them down along with his pants, and Jacob takes a hold of his cock, which is half hard already, stroking it a couple of times before licking the length of it. He’s missed the taste of his lover. Marcus curls his fingers into Jacob’s hair and pulls, and Jacob moans softly. 

Marcus is, as usual, utterly silent, but Jacob can tell from his movements and his breathing that he’s enjoying himself. He handles Jacob roughly, just the way he likes it, hand gripping the back of his neck. When he comes, it is without warning, and Jacob swallows it down and licks him clean. He sits up, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve, and Marcus grabs the back of his neck and pulls him towards him, kissing him, hard. He doesn’t go easy on Jacob’s split lip, and the kiss feels delightfully sore. Marcus emits a soft groan that goes straight to Jacob’s cock. Then he latches onto Jacob’s throat like some kind of enormous fucking leech, and Jacob hisses softly. 

Before Jacob even realises he’s said it, he’s murmured, ‘Fuck, I’ve missed you!’

Marcus stops at once, pulling back and glaring at him. Then he gets up, and pulls Jacob to his feet, throwing him face first down onto the bed. He traps Jacob’s hands behind his back and straddles his arse, leaning forward to bite the back of his neck possessively. Jacob can feel Marcus going hard again, the heaviness of his cock resting on the back of Jacob’s thigh. He feels Marcus’s hot breath in his ear as he hisses, ‘You little shit! Why’d you have to fuck everything up, eh?’

‘You—’ Jacob gasps, ‘you were the one who said you don’t give a fuck about me!’

‘Well, you’re the one who just left!’ Marcus snarls. ‘I fucking hate you!’

Through the pain in his wrists, Jacob manages to laugh softly. ‘Yeah. I fucking hate you too.’ He shifts a little. ‘Ow, you’re so bony! Someone needs to feed you . . .’

Marcus ignores him. He lets go of his wrists and now he’s pulling down Jacob’s trousers and his pants, and inserting a long, thin finger so far up Jacob’s arse that he can barely breathe. With his other hand, he grabs Jacob by the hair and pulls, hard, and Jacob fucking _whimpers_ , like a little bitch.

‘You are a fucking useless little shit!’ Marcus tells him. ‘Right? This is all you’re good for, just a tight hole for me to fucking use! Right?’ He pulls harder at Jacob’s hair, and Jacob’s never been so hard in his life.

‘Yes!’ he gasps.

Marcus lets go of his hair and pulls his own trousers a bit further down. He lubes himself up and positions himself behind Jacob, lifting his hips up with his arm and pushing inside. Jacob shuts his eyes tightly, relishing the feel of Marcus’s hard cock in his arse once more. It’s almost like it’s the first time again, only this time Marcus leans down and whispers in his ear, ‘This is all you are. And you’re _mine_!’

Marcus is all the way in now, and he lies still on top of Jacob, while Jacob struggles to comprehend what it is Marcus actually just said. Then Marcus pulls out again, and Jacob turns over on his back and stares up at him. Marcus is thin and wiry and strong and full of fury and so ridiculously beautiful just then. Without another word, he leans down and kisses Jacob again, fucking his mouth with his tongue, and Jacob thinks he might come just from that, because it’s never felt so intense before, just being kissed. (His mind wanders briefly to a moment back when he was thirteen and he and another boy had been kissing for a really long time and the boy looked at him with wide eyes and said, ‘I think we just had oral sex!’) 

Marcus removes the rest of Jacob’s clothing while he kisses him, and then his own, and then they’re both naked, and facing each other this time. 

And while Marcus slowly inserts himself into Jacob once more, he murmurs through gritted teeth, ‘Don’t you _ever_ fucking leave me again, you useless twat, because you are mine and if anyone else tries to have you I’ll smash his balls _and_ yours! Whatever happens, you are fucking mine, and I— _fuck_!’ he groans, pulling out a bit and thrusting in again. ‘Fuck, Jacob, I fucking need you!’

Jacob doesn’t want to hear anymore, doesn’t know how he can take it in, and he reaches up and grabs Marcus by the back of the neck and pulls him down to kiss him. They work up a familiar rhythm, and there are fingers squeezing a bit too firmly and teeth biting a bit too hard, and Jacob’s body is awash with sensation. And just as he comes he thinks a couple of really stupid thoughts that shall never, ever be repeated.

* * *

Marcus has never felt quite so naked or quite so vulnerable as he does now. Not even when his dad died and Jacob came over and fucked him into oblivion. Now he’s lying with his head on Jacob’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and his breathing, and Jacob’s cum, smeared between their stomachs, is starting to get cold and sticky. He’s just told Jacob that he needs him. Marcus has never told anyone that he needs them before. Additionally, Jacob is unabashedly stroking his hair and his back and kissing the top of his head, and it feels unspeakably intimate. Marcus is terrified.

‘You okay?’ asks Jacob. Marcus nods, nuzzling at the dark, curly hairs of Jacob’s chest. Then he props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Jacob’s brown eyes, swollen lip and floppy dark hair. The boy is looking thoroughly debauched. Marcus frowns.

‘What happens now?’ he asks after a few moments.

Jacob shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

‘People know we’re fucking.’

Jacob smirks. ‘I think _everybody_ knows we’re fucking. Including all your flat mates, by the way.’

Marcus tries not to panic at this news, though he supposes he should have already known. ‘So . . .’ He hesitates in asking his next question. ‘So, what are we then?’

‘Does it matter?’

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Marcus allows himself to actually smile. ‘No.’

‘Then who cares?’ Jacob puts both arms around him and pulls him down on top of him to deliver a kiss to his lips. It’s far gentler than it has any right to be, but this time it doesn’t bother him and it doesn’t seem to bother Jacob either.

When they break apart, slightly breathless, Jacob strokes Marcus’s cheek where he punched him earlier, and Marcus winces slightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Jacob, and Marcus doesn’t think he’s just talking about his cheek.

‘Me too.’ Marcus strokes Jacob’s swollen lower lip with his thumb, but he’s talking about more than their fisticuffs, too. He feels a strange urge to do something silly and _cute_ , like kiss Jacob’s nose or something, but gets over it almost as soon as he’s thought it. Instead he kisses Jacob’s lips again before lying down with his forehead in the space between Jacob’s throat and shoulder.

‘Good work with the paper, by the way,’ he says after a little while. ‘I’ve been reading the web edition . . . You’re not fucking up completely without me.’

‘It’s not for lack of trying,’ Jacob murmurs. ‘Sami’s good, but she keeps trying to push some agenda or another. Fiona can’t really write for shit, as you know, and Glenn’s a fucking train wreck. And the new guy we got hold of, Frankie, from Music—actually, he’s quite promising,’ he finishes lamely. ‘But I suddenly get why you were such a miserable fuck all the time. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming back?’

Marcus scoffs. ‘Have you gone completely deranged? Between writing my dissertation, studying for my exam and fucking you senseless, where would I get the time?’

‘You don’t always have to be the one doing the fucking, you know.’

Marcus pauses, weighing his words. ‘No, but you love it when I do.’

‘This is true.’ Jacob chuckles. ‘Just . . . Try to eat every once in a while? Cause you’re looking even more like a human skeleton at the moment than usual, and you’re no good to anyone like that.’

‘Yes, _mum_. D’you wanna read me a bedtime story and fucking tuck me in as well?’ 

‘Once upon a time,’ says Jacob, ‘there was a really angry king who lived in a tower—’

‘Oh, shut up, Jacob!’

‘—and all he ever wanted to do was fuck one of his advisors, but he was too angry and too thick in the head to ask—’

‘Seriously, shut your fucking cake hole or I will glue it shut!’

‘—so the king’s advisor had to be the one to make the first fucking move. The king was such a stupid, maladjusted, anorexic cunt that when the advisor finally _did_ make a move he lost his shit like some pissed off child and threw a fucking tantrum and—’

‘All right, that’s fucking enough!’ Marcus grabs Jacob’s arms and gathers both his wrists in one hand, holding them above his head. That’s as far as his plan goes, however, and he has to improvise. For lack of any better ideas, he kisses Jacob again to shut him up. Miraculously, it works. It works so well that they both start to get hard again.

Before getting started on round two, Marcus looks down at his lover and hesitantly says, ‘Jacob? You know, I—’

‘Fuck off, you twat.’ Jacob is smiling. Marcus smiles back.

He’s still angry and damaged and miserable. He knows that. They both are. But as Jacob reverses their positions and gives his nipple a nibble that’s just the right side of painful, Marcus thinks that maybe they don’t have to be angry and miserable all the time. Maybe, just maybe, this can be okay.


	4. Strong

Jacob elbows his way to the counter of the crowded hotel bar. When he finally gets there, all three bartenders are busy and he leans his elbows on the counter and sighs. He’s had a long day, and part of him just wants to go home and sleep, but a few drinks with colleagues never hurts. Why they had to choose an upscale hotel on a Friday night is beyond him, though.

He glances to his left and for a moment he doesn’t quite comprehend what it is he’s seeing. Then he blinks, taking in chestnut curls and a long nose and thin lips, and everything seems to pause as the man next to him notices him staring and fixes his green eyes on him.

‘Jacob?’ The man cocks his head to one side. Jacob swallows.

‘Marcus,’ he says. ‘I, er . . . How have you been?’

Marcus shrugs, taking a sip of his whisky. ‘All right, I suppose. You?’

Jacob doesn’t have time to answer because right then one of the bartenders, a lanky youth with ginger hair and freckles (a bit too similar to one of Jacob’s exes), asks, ‘What can I get you, mate?’ and Jacob is forced to take his eyes off Marcus.

‘Er, I’ll have two pints of lager, one red wine, a white russian and a Hemingway daiquiri, please.’

‘Here with friends?’ Marcus asks casually.

‘Yeah, co-workers.’

‘Who’s the Hemingway for?’

Jacob glances sideways at him and smiles sheepishly. ‘Me.’

‘Well, things certainly change,’ says Marcus, taking another sip. ‘Back when I knew you you wouldn’t be caught dead in a rent boy’s arse drinking a fucking cocktail.’

And just like that, with a simple expletive, it feels almost like the last ten years haven’t happened. Jacob laughs.

‘Yeah, things change.’ He looks Marcus up and down. He’s wearing a very fancy charcoal suit, with a silver shirt and purple tie. The thing is immaculate, clean and crisp. His hair is greying prematurely at the temples, but the look suits him. He looks more like he’s in his forties than his early thirties, but then Marcus always did look much older than he was. He is just as fucking skinny and emaciated looking as he always was, and Jacob makes sure to tell him so.

‘Yeah, and I see you still haven’t learned how to handle a fucking razor, either,’ Marcus retaliates. ‘What is going on with your facial hair? You look like a fucking half dead hobo junkie.’ 

There’s something nostalgic about being insulted by Marcus Allen, and Jacob can’t help but smile. The bartender brings Jacob the drinks, and he pays for them. ‘Are you by yourself?’ he asks Marcus while typing in his PIN.

‘Yeah. Staying here tonight, thought I might as well have a fucking drink.’

Jacob nods, carefully considering his next words. ‘Wanna come sit down with us?’

Marcus grimaces, glancing around. ‘No, thanks,’ he says at last. ‘Too many fucking people.’

‘All right.’ Jacob takes his daiquiri off the tray and places it next to Marcus’s whisky. Then he pulls up the nearest free bar stool, takes off his jacket and folds it sloppily on top of the seat, and picks up the tray of drinks. ‘I’ll just bring the drinks over. Look after my Hemingway, yeah?’

Marcus looks surprised, but he doesn’t argue. Jacob manoeuvres the tray of of drinks carefully through the rabble, puts it down on his friends’ table and bids them goodnight, before making his way back to the bar where Marcus is waiting.

‘So!’ he says brightly. ‘What have you been up to, you twat?’

Marcus shrugs one shoulder. ‘Not an awful lot, really. I work for a law firm. Mostly I defend stoner Internet pirates from prosecution by evil, corrupt fucking fat cats.’

‘Living the dream, then.’ Jacob smiles. ‘They must be paying you well. What is this, fucking Armani?’ He plucks at the sleeve of Marcus’s suit jacket.

‘Did you pull that out of your arse?’ Marcus asks with an elevated eyebrow. ‘It’s Savile Row, actually.’ He sips his whisky and studies Jacob. ‘What about you? What do you do? Are you getting paid for fiddling prostates in public loos?’

Jacob fingers the stem of his cocktail glass. ‘Actually, I’m an editor. For a lit magazine. I write book reviews and editorials on literature trends . . . That sort of thing.’

‘Stuck with the media, then, did you?’ Marcus almost smiles. ‘Good for you.’ He sighs and rubs his face with both hands, and Jacob notices for the first time that he’s wearing a wedding band on his bony finger. Jacob swallows and looks away.

‘Who’s the lucky bloke?’ he asks, heart pounding in his chest. 

‘Sorry?’ Marcus looks at him.

‘Your ring,’ Jacob clarifies.

Marcus looks at his hand as though he’s never seen it before. Then he slips the ring off his finger and sticks it in his breast pocket. ‘Not talking about that,’ he murmurs.

‘Oh, fuck off, Marcus! Don’t leave me hanging here!’ Jacob elbows him playfully.

‘Look, I told you I don’t want to fucking talk about it, fuckface!’ Marcus growls and glares at him. ‘It’s nothing. It’s over. I don’t even know why I wear the fucking thing anymore, so . . .’

‘Don’t waste time, do you?’ Jacob takes a long swig of his bitter cocktail. ‘Ten years since I last saw you, and you’ve had time to get married _and_ get divorced?’

‘And have a kid,’ Marcus mutters, looking away.

Jacob’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline. ‘You’re a dad?’ Then he frowns. ‘Marc . . . Did you marry a girl?’

Marcus shuts his eyes for a moment and sighs. Then he drains his glass. ‘Jenny,’ he says at last. ‘My mother introduced us, shit spiralled out of hand. Good fucking Catholic girl, you know? We have a daughter, Meg. She’s three.’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘That is fucking fucked up,’ he tells Marcus. ‘Are you stuck in the sodding fifties or something? No one stays in the closet and fucking _marries their beard_ anymore, you moron!’

Marcus looks at him, and lowers his gaze to his chin. ‘You seem to have married _yours_ ,’ he says with a smirk, and despite his outrage, Jacob laughs.

‘Christ, Marcus . . . Do you never change?’

Marcus orders another whisky (Laphroaig, twenty-five years) and takes a large sip. ‘I cheated on her, with men. In the end I told her, and she divorced me. It was only finalised last week.’ He stares at the glass in his hand, studying the pattern of light in the amber liquid. Seeing the skinny fucker like this gives Jacob an overwhelming urge to _look after him_. ‘What about you?’

Jacob shrugs, ignoring that familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Nothing, really. A couple of on and offs, mostly just casual. You know.’

‘The more things change the more they fucking stay the same, eh?’ Marcus chinks his glass against Jacob’s. ‘Cheers.’ He drains the whole thing in one gulp. He gives a slight hiccup and puts the glass down on the bar a bit harder than necessary. ‘Do you still like men who hurt you?’

Jacob frowns. ‘How many of those have you had?’ he asks slowly, eyeing the empty glass.

‘Not enough,’ Marcus remarks bitterly, and raises his hand to order another one.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Jacob, grabbing hold of his wrist. ‘Come on, you silly cunt, you’re off to bed.’

‘Like fucking hell!’

But Jacob has made up his mind. He stands up, puts his jacket back on and grabs Marcus firmly by the upper arm, dragging him off his stool and out of the bar.

Usually, back then, it was Jacob who was drunk and Marcus who was relatively sober. Now Marcus is draped over his shoulder like a barely walking corpse, and Jacob is reminded of an instance nearly eleven years ago when their positions were reversed. Now Marcus is the one insisting that he’s not drunk. His warm breath as he protests wildly (he’s not that drunk, and he wants more whisky, and Jacob’s not his fucking keeper, how dare he tell Marcus what to do and if he doesn’t let him go back to the bar he’ll fucking tear out his spine and beat him to death with it) makes Jacob shiver. Where does the fucker get off being so irre-fucking-sistable? He manages to coax Marcus’s room number out of him anyway, and presses the button for the lift.

* * *

Marcus stumbles into the darkened hotel room, catching himself on the door handle to the en suite bathroom. Behind him, Jacob shuts the door and turns on the light. Marcus turns around and surveys him.

He is a little older, and looks a little more tired, but ultimately he’s the same. Same wide, brown eyes, floppy dark hair and stupidly long eyelashes. Jacob’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He always did have a bit of an oral fixation. There’s no hint of the smell of tobacco smoke that used to permeate from his clothes, however. Marcus supposes that must mean he finally gave up the cigarettes in favour of continuing to breathe.

Tomorrow, he will blame it all on the alcohol, he’s sure, but now he closes the distance between them, pushing Jacob up against the door, like he would so many years ago, and pressing their lips together, hard. Jacob makes a strangled whimpering noise before pushing him away.

‘Marcus, you’re drunk,’ he murmurs, but Marcus can see the lust in his eyes. 

‘Fuck off, you’ve missed this as much as I have.’

Jacob looks down at his feet. ‘Yeah, I have,’ he says softly. ‘But you’re drunk, and newly divorced and—’

‘And, what, vulnerable? Never fucking bothered you before, did it?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘Things change, Marcus.’

‘No, they fucking don’t. Not that much.’ He never did this sort of thing back then, but now Marcus raises his hand to Jacob’s jaw and strokes his lower lip with his thumb, gently. ‘Please. Just—’ He cuts himself off, embarrassed, and lets his hand drop. ‘I’m sorry. I’m drunk. Fuck—Don’t fucking listen to me.’ He turns away.

‘Wait!’ Jacob grabs his hand. ‘I don’t even—I don’t know how to fucking deal with you anymore. But if you want—’

He doesn’t get any further, because Marcus spins around and pins him to the door again, kissing him with as much passion as he can muster. Ten fucking years of anger and misery and regret. Ten years of fucking up in every aspect of his personal life even as he soared towards a brilliant career. Ten fucking years, all released through that kiss, and he thinks Jacob must have understood, because it leaves him breathless (though not in the asthmatic, about to fucking die sort of way).

Either way, he has Jacob’s attention now, and the shorter man pushes his (beautiful, very expensive) suit jacket off his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, before starting on the tie. At the same time, Marcus starts moving backwards, towards the bed, working on the buttons of Jacob’s blue and purple striped shirt.

When they’ve almost reached the bed, Marcus pauses and stares at him. ‘Have you got a condom? Don’t know where you’ve fucking been, do I?’

Jacob looks at him for a moment, and then he laughs. ‘What do you take me for, you twatweasel? Of course I’ve got a fucking condom!’ Then he kisses him, and pushes him down on the king size bed. 

They struggle frantically to get out of their clothes, and then they’re nearly naked and Jacob is on top of him, looking down at him almost fondly. He traces Marcus’s ribs with his fingertips, and Marcus shudders. ‘Jesus, Marc, you’re gonna fucking kill yourself if you don’t start eating.’

‘What about you, are you still living off of fucking curries and chips?’ Marcus murmurs. ‘I’ll bet you fucking are, you’re such a hypocritical fuckarse.’

‘Yeah, well, at least there’s some kind of nutrition in that stuff,’ Jacob shoots back. ‘You can’t live on fucking coffee and whisky, you moron.’ Then he lowers his head and licks a wet trail up Marcus’s throat, and Marcus is unable to argue any further. 

After a good while of teasing and licking and biting, Jacob asks, ‘So . . . What do you want? Who’s fucking whom tonight?’

Marcus swallows. He wants it all, wants to feel everything at once, but since that’s not really possible, he murmurs, ‘Fucking do it.’

The condom is lubricated, but they haven’t got any actual lube to use for preparation, so they have to make do with Jacob’s saliva. He takes his time, using both tongue and fingers to slowly stretch Marcus. It’s been a good long while since anyone but Marcus himself has come near his arse, and he grips the sheets, gasping for breath and bucking his hips, fucking back against Jacob’s fingers. It’s deliciously painful. 

Jacob fucks him slowly, in long deep thrusts, and Marcus grasps at his arms and shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He comes with Jacob’s name on his lips, mere seconds before Jacob does the same and collapses on top of him. Then he rolls off him, disposing of the condom, and presses up against his side with his hand on his chest and his nose in the crook of his neck. 

‘I’ve missed you,’ Jacob murmurs. Ten years ago, Marcus would have called him a fucking girl and told him to go fuck himself. Now he feels the ache in his chest and knows how true those words are for both of them.

‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Fuck me . . . How did we end up like this?’

‘Well, first we graduated and then you fucked off to fucking Cardiff for your bar training shitting course thing, and I never fucking heard from you again. Because you’re a big stupid twat with commitment issues.’ There’s no accusation in Jacob’s words. Only honesty.

Marcus smiles and pokes his shoulder. ‘Hey, I committed. I got fucking married. How come _you_ never settled down with anyone, Mr. I’m-too-good-for-fucking-relationships McWankface?’

‘They weren’t you.’ The stark honesty of Jacob’s reply takes Marcus by surprise, and makes him feel a little bit guilty.

This is another thing Marcus will blame on the alcohol tomorrow, even though he feels quite clearheaded now. He turns his head and kisses Jacob’s forehead and whispers, ‘I loved you, you know.’

Jacob draws a sharp breath, holds it for a few moments and lets it out again, warm against Marcus’s cooling skin. He kisses his throat. ‘I know.’ His voice sounds slightly choked. ‘I loved you, too.’

Then they kiss again, and there’s a familiar flutter in Marcus’s stomach, a tightening in his gut and all he wants is to be as fucking close as he can get, so he rolls on top of Jacob and kisses him deeply, willing himself to get hard again.

It doesn’t take long.

He fucks Jacob the way he used to—hard, furiously and with total abandon—crushing his wrists into the mattress, watching him squirm beneath him, moaning and whimpering and, finally, begging for his touch, which Marcus happily grants. He gets Jacob off in fast, tight strokes, watching his face as he loses himself, whimpering and gritting his teeth. 

When it’s over, Marcus stays just as he is, listening to Jacob’s heartbeat, and then Jacob laughs, and Marcus props himself up on his elbow and quirks an eyebrow at him.

‘Christ, what are we fucking like, eh?’ Jacob murmurs. ‘Ten years. Over ten fucking years, if took us to say that.’

Marcus smiles. ‘Yeah.’

‘We are seriously fucked up.’

‘We always were.’ Marcus hesitates. ‘But we were stronger together. When I was with you, it—it didn’t matter that I was so fucked up . . .’

‘Yeah, same.’ Jacob runs his fingers through Marcus’s hair, and Marcus closes his eyes and rests his head on his chest once more. He’s missed this intimacy—the intimacy that used to scare him to death. He’s missed being so close to another human being. He’s missed having a companion, a lover. Jenny was his friend, and he did care for her, but she was neither of those things.

‘Marcus?’

‘Mhm?’

‘Can I—’ Jacob seems to hesitate. The hand in Marcus’s hair is trembling and his pulse is racing. ‘This time . . . can I keep you?’ It’s barely more than a whisper.

Marcus pulls himself up into a halfway sitting position. Earnest brown eyes stare up at him from under a sweaty, dark fringe. Marcus pushes the hair out of Jacob’s eyes, stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers. Then he kisses him again and wonders, not for the first time tonight, how he could ever have given up these gorgeous fucking lips. How he could spend a whole decade without feeling them pressed against his own. Without seeing them red and raw from kisses and bites.

‘Fuck off, you twat,’ Marcus murmurs fondly, resting his forehead against Jacob’s. ‘Call me when we’re both sober.’


End file.
